


Desensitization

by gacrux



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: not shippy but was written with that intent so, written post episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gacrux/pseuds/gacrux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot doesn't know how to grieve. Mr. Robot doesn't let him, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desensitization

Nothing much more depressing than rain, in Elliot's approximation. The clouds lingered like a static, wholly monotone and endless. Made everything look grey and colourless; empty. All colours dulled in the rain, diffused by the grey, and it never mattered how bright they were. When everything around them was a blur of ineffable grey, even the most vibrant of blues, red, and greens seemed to go quiet in reflection. Elliot hated the rain. It didn't make him feel less, really, just made him feel tired.

 

It had been raining for three days straight.

 

Didn't change his routine much, but on marginally sunnier days he would at least drag himself out of bed to walk Flipper. Not lately. It meant cleaning up a lot more dog shit, sure, but the way Elliot saw it, he was already good at that. Living was shit, working was shit, existing was shit and all of that made cleaning up literal shit a little more bearable. He was used to it. Had been used to it for some time.

 

So lately he'd just feed Flipper, sprinkle some fish flakes into Qwerty's bowl, and curl up in bed the moment he was given the chance. It wasn't like he slept all that much, but he felt less when he was hidden under layers of blankets, staring at the wall or out the window at a bleak world, all lights doused by the insidious _grey_. It all felt so stupid, so frustratingly endless, pointless, redundant – but he could never find the energy to be angry. So he stewed in his own numbness, hid under all his blankets like he used to do when his mother drank, and pretended to be nothing.

 

It worked, but only so well and only for so long. Inevitably, something would change. Something always changed. Be it him or the world or someone he knew, everything always changed. It had to.

 

Darlene came knocking on the third day. He could only vaguely recall the ensuing conversation, but her annoyance did stand out in memory. She'd been pissed off, he'd been inexplicably exhausted, and no amount of pushing on her end stirred him. He was locked down, and he'd thrown away the fucking key. No amount of picking would open this lock, either. Not even if you were Darlene's particular brand of persistent.

 

He didn't hear Flipper barking when people passed by anymore, so he figured she took him for the time being. Good. That meant he didn't have to get up for anything. At one point he had the notion to check whether she'd taken Qwerty too, but laying in bed doing jack shit was far preferable.

 

Nighttime rolled around and it continued to rain. Elliot stared out the window and smoothed his fingers over his blankets, rolling them between his fingers just for the sake of the feeling.

 

“Well, isn't this just enormously depressing.”

 

It took a moment to actually crane his neck far enough to see Mr. Robot stood over Qwerty's fishbowl, fish flakes in one hand, Elliot's keys in the other. That explained how he knew what was up and how he got in – but why he was there in the first place was still inexplicable. What was it with these fucking hackers and walking into his _home_ like they owned the place.

 

“Yeah, what a mess. Elliot, your fish is dead.” Mr. Robot announced, like it was a totally banal thing to say.

 

“ _What-_ ” Elliot shot out of bed and across the room so fast his body could barely keep up; he tripped into a chair, clipped his ankle on that piece of baseboard that stuck out too far from the wall, and nearly barreled into the man in question in his rush to see his dead fish because what the _fuck_ , he loved that thing, and it was all he had left of – and it was all he was _ever_ going to have left of her–

 

“Kidding. Just had to get you out of bed. Darlene said you were practically in a coma, and I see she wasn't wrong.” Mr. Robot gave his shoulder a squeeze and then sprinkled a few flakes into Qwerty's bowl. The fish swam up to eat them, more active than Elliot had seen her in days. He'd call it unbelievable, but that was what Mr. Robot seemed to make a point of doing. The unbelievable.

 

“Why are you in my home.”

 

Mr. Robot picked through the cupboards until he found a mug he was satisfied with, then went about filling it up with water. Elliot, in the meanwhile, sank into one of the chairs at his kitchen table and stared at the wall clock Angela had gotten him for a birthday ages ago, or something. It was black, shaped like a cat; the tail flicked back and forth to measure the seconds as they passed. Elliot got to 74 before Mr. Robot finally sat down next to him, having dragged over one of the other chairs to do so. In one hand he held Elliot's favourite mug, while the other was draped over the back of his chair. He looked expectant.

 

When Elliot remained despondent, he readjusted and asked, “You're gonna have to spell it out for me. Why are you behaving like a desperately incompetent preteen?”

 

Elliot stared out the window. It was dark now, but he could hear the rain spitting against the window pane. Nobody else would mind, it was just the lightest dusting of precipitation, but Elliot was already losing the will to be mentally active. He just wanted it to stop. All of it. The rain, the noise, the memories – all of it.

 

Mr. Robot squinted up at the ceiling while he slid the mug of water to the side. Elliot could feel the awkward apology coming.

 

“Look,” Mr. Robot began, like the grand-master of all story tellers, “all I'm saying is that you're depressed because your girlfriend died or whatever, and that's fine, but I warned you. And now you've let your dog shit all over your apartment, your fish almost starved to death, and you've gotten Darlene concerned about you. She doesn't _concern_ over many things at all, you know. That she mentioned you to me suggests you're either worse off than you think, or worse off than _she_ thinks, and either way, you're worse off.”

 

Elliot wasn't sure if there was even a point to that impressively convoluted monologue. Also wasn't sure if he cared.

 

“The point is, you're being astoundingly selfish and you need to cut that shit out post haste.”

 

“I'm trying not to die?” Elliot suggested, frowning, trying to mentally glaze over that eerie telepathy thing Mr. Robot did so often.

 

“Is that a question?” The man adjusted his cap and leaned over, one arm braced on the table, the other trapping Elliot against his chair. “You're 'trying not to die', question mark? That's the best you've got? Really?”

 

“Yes, really. Fuck you.” Elliot replied, sullen and slightly miffed, backed so far up he could feel the chair begging to tip under his weight. Mr. Robot was frowning at him, lips pulled back in a frustrated cringe.

 

“Alright, I'm gonna ask politely. Would you please get it the fuck together, Elliot. I have enough on my plate dealing with Darlene's destructive spontaneity and smirking goatee-sporting deserters, I have no time to deal with you. Not like this.” Despite the biting tone of his words, Mr. Robot's eyes were warm. Not kind or inviting, but... accepting. Like he understood that this was Elliot. All of his sadness and loneliness and general apathy, it was all Elliot Alderson: The Package. He knew it, accepted it, and wasn't about to change Elliot or suggest he find a therapist he _couldn't_ hack or something equally insulting. He just let it all go, but still expected the best of him.

 

The idea that someone could just acknowledge those parts of him and move right past them was unexpectedly hard to stomach.

 

“So,” Mr. Robot continued, “can you do that for me? Can you get your life back on track?”

 

“I... can try.” Elliot admitted after a moments consideration, wetting his lips. Wasn't like he had anything better to do anyway, he might as well make himself useful to _someone_. Mr. Robot, still leaning quite far into Elliot's space, pulled back a scant inch. There was something in his eyes that Elliot wasn't sure how to interpret, something that reminded him of concern – or uneasiness? He was still a little flustered, dazed from the rude awakening, and whatever it might've been was gone just as quick as it came.

 

Mr. Robot leaned back in his chair and picked up his mug; Elliot quietly let go of the breath he'd been holding in, and let his hands fall back into his lap.

 

“Good.” Mr. Robot conceded, taking a sip of water. “That's what I like to hear.”

 

The rain was petering off outside as the sky brightened up, although the sun wasn't quite peaking out from behind the horizon yet. Elliot carefully slid his hands into the pockets of his sweater, eyes hovering somewhere between Mr. Robot and the mug of water he had set down on the table.

 

“Think I'm gonna go back to sleep now.” Elliot informed the table, quietly.

 

Mr. Robot blinked and looked over at him, as though he'd just derailed some deep-wandering train of thought.

 

“Alright.” He agreed, but never made to move from his spot. So Elliot shrugged imperceptibly, watching Mr. Robot splay his hands out on the table like he had something else to add, but he didn't say a word. Which might've been out of character, and Elliot might've been more interested at any other time – but he was tired. Tired and lonely; except the loneliness was already waning, and it left him feeling content. Relieved.

 

Better.

 

“Alright.” Elliot echoed, listening to the clock as the seconds ticked by.


End file.
